घुड़सवार

At first, the kettle is brooding silently. The illusion of peace.
Completely still, while the flames flicker underneath.
Nothing to report initially. Internally the shift is inevitable.
Over time you can tell it’s due for a release.
That something is pent up and needs an escape.
No timer. No countdown.
The moment arrives, undeniable.
It breaks the silence in the way screams often do.

I used to think the fine china was pointless.
The ones you love deserve the good china.

But convenience always reaches for whatever’s clean.
Ordinary cups weren’t equipped for this task.
My coffee mug wouldn’t know the first thing to do.
Obviously out of place and underprepared for the moment.

Sometimes you have to wait for it to cool down.
Rage doesn’t shift to room temperature in an instant.
She always preferred honey, golden waves slow and consistent.
There’s just enough for it to coat the rim and leave nothing behind.
When I mention that I only have sugar cubes—they stay in the tin.
A form of sweetness she was never receptive to.

She raises the cup to blow on it gently. She doesn’t take a sip.
I pretend not to notice. A smile hung by loose thumb tacks.
So many ways to be thoughtful. So many more ways to be
thoughtless. Once the flavor seeps in, it’s no longer just water.
It remembers.